


Merry Christmas, John

by Abbytheweird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Jam, Platonic or romantic you decide, Pointless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbytheweird/pseuds/Abbytheweird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas morning, and Sherlock is doing his best to not be a pain in the arse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Christmas, John

**Author's Note:**

> So there's little to say about this, other than there's no point to it. I wrote it last year, but by the time I did it was too late to upload.

It was cold in London that morning. Not that such a happening was unusual in December, but that day was particularly bitter, forcing John Watson into his largest, most heinous Christmas jumper before padding down the stairs. Mrs Hudson had been busy in the previous weeks, wrapping tinsel around the handrails and anything as she could wrap tinsel around. He yawned, rubbing the scraggly mess of blonde at the back of his head, relishing the scratch of his short nails against his scalp.

The living room, thankfully, was far warmer; a fire roaring in the hearth, courtesy of one consulting detective, who had decided that sleeping on Christmas Eve wasn't something he needed to do. Said detective was sat in the middle of the floor, struggling with a roll of sticky tape. 

"Good morning, John," he greeted through gritted teeth as he finally pulled his fingers free. "And a merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," John chuckled sleepily, shuffling into the kitchen for his morning tea. "What got you so tied up?"

"Sellotape," Sherlock muttered. "I was curious as to how strong it was. The answer is 'very'."

"How scientific of you," John tutted, pouring them both their tea and bringing it back in. Immediately, his eyes fell to the small, roughly square parcel that sat beneath the tree. It hadn't been there the night before; the neatly wrapped presents that had been placed there by Mrs Hudson and John sat below the mystery item. John leaned down and placed Sherlock's cup in the outstretched hand, his eyes still trained on the unexpected parcel. The name 'John' was scrawled atop it with tired, heavy sharpie. John took a sip of his tea and smiled to himself, warmed by more than the welcomingly hit beverage that ran down his throat. 

"So you do observe from time to time." His amused smirk evident in Sherlock's tone of voice, suddenly close behind his flat mate, demonstrating his complete disregard for the laws of personal space held by the majority of the human race. 

"Well, it sort of sticks out, doesn't it?" John defended, turning to glance at Sherlock. "Go to sleep, Sherlock, you're exhausted," he ordered, turning to look at his dreary pallor and dark rings around the pale, watery eyes that the greying doctor had become so used to.

"Nonsense, John!" Sherlock grinned a rare, pleased grin that met his optics. "Sleep in the good part of the day when it's only us? Then wake up when everyone comes for drinks and mince pies and... Conversation?" Sherlock almost spat the last word as he thought of past Christmases. They never seemed to work for Sherlock, or John for that matter. 

"Alright, but get some sleep before they come anyway. You've got to suffer with unwanted guests, it's part of Christmas."

"I do have to look at your terrible jumpers," Sherlock argued, waving his hand at the offending item. John puffed out his chest and cheeks in annoyance, but it didn't last long. The jumper was rather horrible, he conceded, but only mentally. 

"Not good enough, cheer up and drink your tea," he chuckled, absently stroking the pattern on his pullover. Sherlock silently obeyed, folding himself into his armchair, curving his lips over the edge. He remained wordless whilst John stood, quietly contemplating how it wasn't going to be quiet in around ten hours or so, draining his own mug.

"Open it, I know you want to," Sherlock grinned, and steepled his hands beneath his chin, watching John from beneath his dark curls.

"Now?"

"Well, it is Christmas morning. I seem to recall that is the traditional time for excited little children and army doctors to open their gifts." The excited army doctor in question laughed and nodded, walking over and picking it up. He paused for a moment, beginning to worry. But the look on his flat mate's face was one of both complete innocence and apprehension.

"Alright," John smirked, turning the parcel over in his hands, finding the messy triangle that was secured on the base with a scrunched up line of tape. Sliding his short nails beneath the paper, he pulled it away, ripping it neatly in two. The disgustingly decorated wrapping paper fell to the floor, revealing the gift it had once concealed. 

In John's hands sat a clear plastic cube, within which was a jar filled with red gel. 

"Jam?" He asked, wondering why on Earth a condiment would come in such a fancy box, or why Sherlock looked so proud of himself. 

"Read the label, John," was Sherlock's only response.

"The label...?" The doctor looked down and turned over the blue piece of thin cardboard. There, in ornate gothic script, lay the words 'Jam Body Wash'. There were a few moments of silence before John swallowed. 

"Going for a shower?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow arched in a credulous, silently amused fashion. 

"Yes." 

Sherlock barely had time to laugh as John dived through the door and up the stairs to their shower, not even giving Sherlock time to hand him the second gift. This left Sherlock with a conundrum. Should he go upstairs and deliver the toast shaped sponge and enhance John's showering experience further, or stay downstairs... Perhaps getting in that sleep John so adamantly insisted upon. 

Sherlock allowed himself to ponder until he heard the thud of John's jeans on the bathroom floor. Smirking to himself, he climbed the stairs, toast sponge in hand.

"John, you left your second present," he proclaimed, easily opening the bathroom lock from the outside. John spun where he stood, eyes wide and face pink as he saw the detective's all-seeing eyes wash over his figure; once one of muscle, but then, after months and years of tea and day-time tele, mourning a man who was not dead or waiting for that man to get an interesting case had taken its toll on his waist line, leaving him comfortably rotund. It wasn't that John was unfit, merely unrefined.

"Surely it could wait," John argued, thankful he had not managed to yet remove his conservative white boxer shorts.

"Ah, but it's part of the present," Sherlock explained calmly, handing across the oddly shaped packet. With a long suffering sigh, John pulled apart the paper to find the toast shaped sponge, and laughed.

"Very nice," he smirked, before waving at the door, indicating his wish for Sherlock to leave. Sherlock ignored him.

"Yes, yes I'd say so..." Sherlock punctuated his observation by once more letting his gaze sweep over John's form.

"Mm, well, uh, I need to shower now... So get out, please," the doctor suggested, waving his hand at the white bathroom door.

"If you insist," chuckled Sherlock before swooping from the bathroom to allow John to shower in peace.

The army doctor had never before washed himself with a slice of toast, nor a slice of toast lookalike. He'd also never scooped jam from a jar by the finger full with the intent of slathering it on himself. He had, however, eaten jam from the jar by his fingers, and he poked his stomach thinking about it. Perhaps a gym membership was in order at the start of the New Year. Or perhaps not. He'd almost definitely be dragged away from his workout by some case or other, and he didn't much want to run across London having rowed himself into oblivion to bad music already. Criminals were inconvenient that way.

John emerged much later, smelling distinctly of strawberry jam, but without the uncomfortable stickiness that usually accompanied such a scent. He dressed in a much less hideous jumper than before, but still one with a Christmas theme; white reindeer dancing around the red collar.

Sherlock was, however, nowhere to be found, and upon careful listening, a faint, exhausted snore of a consulting detective could be heard coming from his bedroom. John smiled and sat down in his arm chair to enjoy the peace of a quiet Christmas morning and a newspaper, his nose filled with the delicious scent of strawberry jam.


End file.
